Pride of the Proudfeet
by GreyLadyBast
Summary: Clover Proudfoot meets something on the Road she'd rather not, but family pride keeps her on her feet. R/R, else how am I supposed to improve as a writer??


Disclaimer: been there, done that, bought the T-shirt. Tolkien created it, I'm just playing with his toys.  
  
Pride of the Proudfeet  
  
The Road was neverending, of that the hobbit lass was certain. She felt like she'd been walking forever, and only just crossed the Brandywine Bridge. "I'll never get to Rivendell at this rate!" she exclaimed to a nearby tree. The tree had no advice to offer.  
  
Clover Proudfoot plopped her small self down on the uncommunicative tree's roots. She sighed in frustration. She was no stranger to camping alone in the woods, being the apothecary's daughter she'd often had to travel in search of medicinal herbs. Somehow, thought, she'd expected walking on the Road to be easier than it was turning out to be. Her pack was heavy, her feet weary and her progress depressingly slow. When she'd set out from Hobbiton, chasing Frodo Baggins, she had only the vaguest idea of the distances involved, and no real clue how long it would take to traverse them. She had expected her adventure to be simple, like her herb crafting trips or the games she'd played with her cousins as children. This endless step-step-step down an unchanging Road, even through the familiar Shire, was most certainly NOT what she'd had in mind. Nor did it seem to be getting her any closer to Frodo. Clover was already tempted to turn back to the comfort of Hobbiton. She hadn't been  
gone that long, if she went back now she'd get naught but a scolding from Uncle Sancho. The lass looked down the Road, and sighed, knowing she would go on.  
  
"Giving up is just not my way," she informed the still-silent tree. "I'm too much a Proudfoot, and we're a stubborn family. I'll keep on keeping on, `til I get to Rivendell or my feet fall off. Though right now, the latter seems much more likely than the former," she concluded ruefully, massaging her aching toes. Good as it felt, it wasn't getting her anywhere, so she soon stopped, shouldered her pack, and continued on her way.  
  
She walked for some hours more, till the sun was coloring the western sky. Clover paused only twice, once to gather mushrooms and thyme, and again to bring down a pigeon with a well-cast stone. As a girl, she'd prided herself on being better with a slingshot than Merry, Pippin or any of her male cousins. Since the skill was useful on her herbing expeditions , she kept in practice. "A good thing too," she thought, "as the supplies Rosie gave me won't last forever." With the pigeon, the mushrooms and the herbs, she had herself a tasty meal.  
  
In order to eat that meal, however, she needed a place to camp. Clover had hoped to get to Bree before nightfall, sleep in a bed instead of on the ground, but that was clearly not possible. Instead, she found herself a suitable camping site, collected some firewood and settled in for the evening.  
  
The fire was crackling merrily, the pigeon plucked, cleaned and roasting nicely on a spit, when the hobbit became aware of something, well, odd. All the birds, chirping their goodnight songs to each other just moments ago, had fallen strangely silent. A mist came creeping up the Road, and Clover felt suddenly cold. A terrible dread came over her, worse even than the time Aunt Esmeralda caught her and Merry with an armload of carrots stolen from Farmer Maggot. She looked frantically around for a place to hide, but there were none.  
  
"Don't be silly, Clover Proudfoot," she told herself sternly. "You've barely left the Shire! What harm could possibly befall you here?" Still, the dread could not be shaken.  
  
The lass was still trying to talk some hobbit-sense into herself when the source of the fear came into view. A gigantic Rider, cloaked all in black, upon a monstrous black horse, paused before Clover's humble camp. The hobbit looked up...and up...and up further, to the black emptiness where the Rider's face should have been.  
  
"Bagginssssss," is hissed softly.  
  
Clover shivered all over at the sound. It was like illness, and death, and decay, and all foul things rolled into one and given voice. Tear pricked the corners of her eyes and she dropped her gaze.  
  
"Bagginsssssss," the Thing hissed again.  
  
Clover died, or wished she could. She wanted to have a Baggins with her, to hand over to the Thing and make it go away. She was about to tell It anything, all she knew or guessed about Frodo, Bilbo, any and all Bagginses she'd ever come in contact with in her entire life, when something deep within her awoke. A memory, something Uncle Sancho had told her when he'd seen her hang her head in shame during one of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins' scoldings for spending her time with Frodo instead of Lotho.  
  
"Never forget who you are, m'girl," Uncle Sancho had said. "For all your mother's a Took and your father half a Brandybuck, you still carry our family name. You're a Proudfoot, lass, and that means you're as good as anyone you'll ever meet, if not better! So stand up tall and proud! Keep your chin up, your back straight and your feet firmly planted on the ground. And whatever you do, right or wrong, always look `em in the eye!"  
  
Clover lifted her head and squared her shoulders, Uncle Sancho's wise words giving her strength. "And what would the likes of you want with a Baggins?" she challenged, sounding much more confident than she felt.  
  
The Black Rider said nothing for several long minutes. Clover began to sweat, then to quake in the boots she didn't wear. Funny the way Uncle Sancho neglected to mention how to look someone in the eyes when they didn't have any! Still, Clover stared defiantly into the awful blackness where the eyes should have been, and remembered she was a Proudfoot. She would do her family proud, or die trying!  
  
She was beginning to believe she would die trying, when a horrible screech pierced the air from a distance. The Thing screeched back, and Clover collapsed into a heap, clutching her ears, pride forgotten. The Black Rider galloped off, but Clover in her terror did not notice. She remained in her huddle as her pigeon burned and her fire died, for a long time. The sun sank below the horizon and the stars came out, before Clover finally gathered the strength to crawl back to her blankets, there to curl under them and suck her thumb, until sleep overcame her. 


End file.
